


Exploration, Detonation

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Kinktober 2017, Masturbation, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 06:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12475364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: After a particular debriefing sensation, Vera's had one too many. She spends the night in Joan's home.





	Exploration, Detonation

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, I'm not following any of the kinktober prompts in order. I'm simply going with the flow. There, she allows herself to unwind.

This abundance of wine would even make Dionysus proud. By the end of the evening, Shiraz transforms into a shot or two of chilled vodka. Vera Bennett can't say for sure. She's lost count. The mouse-like woman finds it difficult to say no.

Joan Ferguson is _impossible_ to refuse.

Her world spins. A grainy film obscures her vision. When she stands, she sways. Joan the Merciful bestows an offering onto her: a water bottle, name brand and notoriously expensive.

“Thank you,” Vera mutters sheepishly.

All too greedily, she drinks.

Plump lips peel back into a cheeky, albeit shy grin. The effect that alcohol has on Vera is all too endearing. Blue-grey eyes begin to drop. While her confidence peaks, her exhaustion reaches a new level. She feels it in her fingers, her bones, and her aching soul.

“Spend the night. The guest room hasn't accommodated another in quite some time,” Joan says.

Her request sings the tune of a demand.

Vera is in no position to refuse.

She reaches for her purse and fumbles for her phone. Even in her inebriated state, she notices the glint of amusement in the Governor's abysmal stare. It's fleeting, replaced by an observant look that borders a fine, voyeuristic line.

With her blazer neatly folded and draped over the back of a chair, Joan wears the remnants of their uniform.

They both do.

However, Joan excuses herself. She pulls her hair into an even ponytail. Then, she reaches for the crystal glasses. She gathers them. Vanishes into the other room. The kitchen sink screams a fresh spray of water hotter than Hell.

Alone, Vera makes the call. Her relief is eminent when the nurse informs her of Rita's resting state. Mum's become more of a hindrance than she cares to admit – the thought shocks her to the core.

_What's wrong with me?_

“Have you taken care of your mother?”

The receiver caresses her cheek. There's no Personal Jesus on the other line. Arguably, she's here with her savor. The call ends. Dizzily, Vera snaps her head to the source. She locates Joan, wide hips brushing against the door frame.

A delayed pause follows. Doe's eyes flick to her boss, her friend, her something, her nothing.

On the sofa, Vera tucks her knees into her chest.

“Oh, um. Yes. The nurse has agreed to spend the night.”

She laughs.

A few too many glasses turns anything into a comedy act.

“Good,” Joan replies with a curt nod. “She’ll appreciate the overtime.”

Akin to a specter, Ferguson seems to flit about the room. She shuts off the lamp beside the leather couch. When Joan Ferguson invites you to spend the night, you can't exactly _refuse_.

“I'll show you to the guest bedroom. Upstairs, on your right.”

Ever dutiful, Vera trails behind. Her feet pad across the immaculate, wooden floor. Nylon stockings muffle the sound. God, this isn't what she imagined when she had a sleepover in mind.

As a child, Mum never allowed her the privilege.

Now, it feels quite strange.

She hasn't a spare change of clothes.

“You may borrow a shirt that I've left on the bed,” Joan replies, as though she can read Vera's mind. As though she has eyes in the back of her head. As though she anticipated this outcome.

Somehow, it unnerves her deputy. Goosebumps prick her flesh. The hair on the back of her neck stands on edge.

Together, they climb the staircase. Joan skips two at a time. Vera lags behind – always in the background, never in the foreground.

Deputy and Governor reach the end of the journey. Even in one spot, Vera sways under the scrutiny of Joan's spotlight stare. Her superior arches a sculpted brow, thin lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk.

“A spare bathroom is adjacent to the bedroom. You may freshen up should you wish.” There's a flick of her wrist. Atypical arrogance dictates her actions. Joan holds her head high, as if a halo looms above her black, black crown. “Sleep well, Vera.”

A nod serves as her farewell song. Pivoting on heel, Joan leaves Vera alone. She strolls off towards her respective room. The hallway light flicks off. The door clicks shut.

And that's all she wrote.

"Oh, good night," she calls after her vanished form.

Timidly, Vera closes the door behind her. The guest bedroom mimics the clinical fashion of the rest of Joan's flat: sterile, impeccably clean, and lacking any trace of personality. It's furnished without hospitality in mind, only practicality matters.

One at a time, Vera unfastens the buttons to her blouse. Akin to a butterfly's wings, the sides flutter and flap. The skirt pools around her feet. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, the stockings come off next.

She's surprised by the softness of the bed and how she bounces from her seated stance. Nimble fingers reach around to unclasp her bra, though it's a bit of a hassle. The liquor-induced haze presents a veritable challenge.

Clad in only her lackluster panties, she avoids her reflection projected in the vanity. Vera sucks the air through her teeth. The t-shirt, as bland as her composition, slips through her touch. She slips it on, unaccustomed to the idea of going to bed nude. It strays from her Puritan beliefs.

Timidly, Vera crawls across the expanse of the bed. She shuts off the light that resides on the nightstand. Darkness consumes the room. Finally, she slips beneath the heavy, teal covers, but sleep doesn't come next.

Liquid courage fuels these antics.

On her back, her eyes adjust to the dark. Silence consumes this home. It's unlike Vera's place that has no become infected by the steady blip of a heart monitor – of her mother's strangled, warbled cries.

She takes advantage of the quietude.

A hesitant hand dips below the waistband of her drawers. She isn’t brave enough to tear them off.

Yet.

Blunt nails tease her inner thighs. In her self-exploration, she avoids her burning center. Again, teeth graze her bottom lip. The heap of blankets hide her spry form, similar to the restrictive uniform she wears day in and day out.

She wets her chapped lips. Still, they burn the same as the rest of her.

Stormy eyes flutter shut. Vivid fantasies play out. Accustomed to hiding in the still of the night, self-exploration comes in vapid bursts. This evening, she allows herself a prolonged discovery.

Toned thighs part furthermore. Nipples perk, sensitive from the sensation of cotton rubbing against them. Quietly, she writhes. She stifles a groan. Finally, Vera allows for her imagination to run wild.

How would Joan's hands upon her throat? Would she wear gloves or leave herself bare? Would she skim her French manicured tips over her taut throat? Would she scratch her chest, her beck, her quivering belly? Would she restraint her? Bend her over? Make her cry from pleasure and pain?

She yearns to be marked, to be taken, to be _claimed_.

Don't you?

Few can resist the Governor's allure.

With her head tossed back onto the bland pillow, the comforter slithers down. In frustration, she kicks off the sheet. A tantalizing touch ventures between her legs. Curious fingers tease her slit before wandering up to circle her clit. Light pressure becomes rougher, harsher. She needs **more**. She needs to feel it.

This fever eats her alive.

Breath hitches in her throat. Sweat collects along her temple and broad. In this lonely dance, she touches herself. Fucks herself in a way that she's never sampled.

Fingers delve deeper insight. Greedily, her cunt takes one. Then, two. Shallow thrusts commence. Unbeknownst to her, the door cracks open. She cannot hear the silent intrusion in the midst of her soft moans and desperate panting.

From afar, Joan watches.

It's an alluring view.

Vera pretends that Joan kisses her, fucks her, bends her over, and defiles her. It's filthy. Wantonly, she leaves her legs spread wide. Wetness coats her fingers to the knuckle. With a whimper, her thighs quiver and shake. She's _close_.

Eager for release, she picks up the pace. Thumb and forefinger pinch her clit. A tap, tap, tap threatens to send her over the edge. Her unoccupied hand moves to cup small, albeit pert breasts.

From the sensations, her body shivers. Breath quickens. With a strangled cry, she falls apart. Comes undone. Unravels with the abundance of euphemisms we used to describe such mindless pleasure.

“Joan” creeps out – an intentional drop of the name when rapture conquers her. Heat floods between her legs, the wetness palpable for her release. Her cunt milks her fingers for all they're worth.

It's over.

She covers herself quickly, afraid of any harmful repercussions.

In mere moments, sleep conquers.

Blame alcohol for that.

In the early dawn, Vera rises. A hangover hammers at her forehead. With a groan, she faults herself for not drinking enough water, for not pacing herself, for simply not being good _enough_. It's difficult to quell those insecurities.

Utilizing the guest bathroom, she washes up. Draped over the chair, she spies her uniform, freshly washed and pressed. Brows knit together. Lines of worry and confusion burrow into her face.

She showers. She puts on the skirt.

A demure mouse creeps down the stairs where a fresh cup of coffee and glass of ice cold water awaits her.

With a smirk in place, Joan looks up from her morning paper.

“Good morning, Vera,” she drawls in that velvety timber. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

She knows.

 _She can't,_ Vera's mind protests.

The mouse of a Deputy tucks an errant curl behind her ear. A furtive blush blossoms in retaliation to that knowing smirk. She picks at the hem of her skirt, the very incarnation of nerves.

Shame turns her cheeks into burning, brilliant shade of scarlet.

“I, um, I did. Thank you, Joan. It was... memorable.”

“I should hope so,” the Governor croons and sips her coffee.

The rest goes unsaid.

Consider it a reciprocation of trust.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the inspiration for this came from Manson's video, "Say 10."


End file.
